Sagan's hand closed to a fist.
Fideles's hand laid gently over it. "It hasn't worked, has it? You are not dead. You've been hiding in the tomb. Until you come out and expose these wounds to the light, they will never close, never heal. God has rolled aside the stone. It is not my choice, nor His—but yours."
The archbishop let loose the hand. Turning away, he walked around behind his desk. He seated himself, opened the drawer, reached in, and drew out the communique he had been reading when Prior John burst in.
Fideles lifted the sheaf of papers, held them out to Sagan. "Will you come back to life? To help those who need you?"
Sagan accepted the papers reluctantly, but he did not glance at them. He remained standing. "Don't you want to know why I lied, Holiness?"
"If you want to tell me," said the archbishop. "But first I think you should read this. It may make a difference." He looked at the man intently, noticed the lips were parched, cracked. "Can I get you something, Brother? How long has it been since you ate or drank anything?"
"I don't know," Sagan said impatiently. "I can't remember." He looked at the papers. His lips tightened into a thin, dark line. "You would have me do this, Holiness?"
"Yes, I would," said Fideles steadily.
"God help you, then," Sagan muttered. He sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the desk from the archbishop and silently began to read.
Fideles found he was trembling. He murmured a prayer that was one of both thanksgiving and misgiving. Rising quietly, fearful of disturbing the Warlord's concentration, the archbishop left his desk, glided over to a sideboard where stood an iced pitcher of water. He poured a glass, brought it back, placed it on the desk within Sagan's reach.
He drank of it thirstily, then, absorbed in his reading, appeared to forget the water was there.
At first he had scanned the material swiftly, his thoughts unfocused, seemingly unable to concentrate. Then his attention was caught, held. The lines in the haggard face—which had aged far too much in three years—deepened.
Fideles, sighing again, picked up his breviary to read the daily office, discovered he was too upset to give his mind to the words, and let the book fall. He watched the Warlord, watched him read, tried to guess his place in the text, which the archbishop found himself remembering with startling clarity.
We have yet to determine the nature of the invader that penetrated the sophisticated detection systems of Snaga Ohme. But be it probe or microships or "ghosts," it stole the fake space-rotation bomb planted there. It has undoubtedly learned that the bomb is a fake and even now, perhaps, is searching for the real one. And how are we to stop it if we don't know what it is? Can't see it? Hear it? Touch it? ...
Captain Dhure questioned Tusca about his relationship with the king, but did not press the point. Perhaps Dhure believed Tusca's explanation of a falling out. Neither Tusca nor Link has been contacted by this Ghost Legion since....
Vallombrosa: Vale of Shades. Unmanned probes have confirmed what was already indicated on the charts—it is a lifeless planet existing in a lifeless region of the galaxy. Yet its coordinates were given to Tusca and to other pilots— including those we sent as spies—as a rendezvous site. We can only assume that once the pilots reach that location, they are given a different set of coordinates. We can't be certain, however, since our spies have not returned. We have lost all contact with them... . For your information, Holiness, I have included what we know of the history of the planet Vallombrosa. It was discovered by the galactic explorer—
"Pantha!" Sagan breathed, the first word he'd uttered.
"Garth Pantha," said Fideles quietly, his hands folded on top of his breviary. "I, too, was struck by the name. Of course, we would naturally be sensitive to it, having just heard such a name mentioned in connection with the doctor's strange tale. Probably coincidence.. .."
"I do not believe in coincidence," said the Warlord. He placed the report on the desk, began to rub the inside of his right palm.
"What does it mean, then?" Fideles asked, perplexed. "What does it all mean?"
Sagan was staring intently at nothing that the archbishop could see; the dark eyes narrowed, as if attempting to bring something far distant into focus. The Warlord continued rubbing his hand, as one rubs a sore and aching tooth.
"It means the bastard son of Amodius is alive," he said. "And he is making ready to lay claim to the throne."
"But... how do you know?" Fideles was appalled. "You can't know for certain!"
"Yes, I can." Sagan shifted his gaze—and his thoughts—from the far to the near. He looked at the palm of his hand. "I've seen him. Spoken to him. He was the one who sent me to that hospital. His voice ... not God's."
"The Creator have mercy!" Fideles shuddered. He sat in silence long moments, pondering, fingers caressing the leather-bound breviary, seeking reassurance, guidance. "I didn't want to do this. But it seems we have no choice. His Majesty must be informed ... of everything."
Derek Sagan said nothing. He had withdrawn back into himself—head and eyes lowered, hands folded into the sleeves of the robe, cowl pulled up over his head. The Warlord was gone, if he had ever truly been present. Brother Penitent had returned.
The archbishop continued, "I will send you, Brother—"
"No!"
The word was softly spoken, yet it vibrated through Fideles's taut nerves like an electrical jolt. His fingers twitched. He shoved the breviary to one side, leaned over the desk.
"I understand your reluctance, my lord, but you must be the one to go to him. I don't understand what is happening. I am not Blood Royal. You are, and you are the only one His Majesty would believe, the only one who can answer his questions."
The hooded head lifted, but all the archbishop could see within the shadows were the burning eyes.
"Dion would believe Lord Sagan. But Lord Sagan is dead." The voice was dark as the shadows. "Let him die, Holiness! I'm warning you! Let him die!"
"I cannot do that, my lord," said Fideles. "His Majesty may be in danger—"
"He is in danger! And I will only escalate his danger!"
Sagan's right hand closed to a fist, slammed down, shattered the glass. Water flooded the desk, soaked everything on it, including the report, including the breviary.
Neither man moved.
The water crept to the edge of the desk. Still neither did anything to stop it.
A drop fell to the floor, then another, and another, measuring the silence. Slowly Sagan unclenched his hand: Traces of blood mingled with the water.
"I am sorry, Holiness. Forgive me."
"It is not from me you should be seeking forgiveness," said Fideles sternly. "Have these three years meant nothing to you? Have your prayers to Him been movements of your lips only?"
"Prayers!" Sagan gave a bitter laugh. "No, my prayers to Him have been sincere. He has cast them back in my face! What does He want from me?"
"Have you asked Him?"
Sagan lunged across the desk, grasped hold of Fideles's arm. Nails dug deep into flesh, fingers crushed and bruised. His words burst out in fierce anger, terrible passion. "God has taken my very soul and left me empty! What more does He want of me?"
Fideles did not blanch. He closed his hand over the man's wrist, held him fast.
"I do not know, my brother," he said. "Unless it be to find the soul that you have lost."
Sagan released his grip involuntarily, as if the fingers had suddenly lost their strength. Slowly he straightened. His breathing was heavy, labored. The sleeves of his cassock were wet from the spilled water and blood.
Fideles felt no pain now. Later, he would see the bruises— ugly, discolored. The marks on his arm would last for weeks.
"I have taken a vow of obedience, Holiness," said Sagan in a lifeless voice, his face averted. "If you command it, I will go."
"And thus force me to take responsibility?" Fideles asked wryly.
Sagan's lip curled, but he did not reply.
"Very
well." Fideles rose to his feet. "God's will in this is clear. Brother Penitent, I command you to go to His Majesty and tell him all that we have discovered, plus any additional information you deem essential. Further, you will consider yourself at His Majesty's disposal and undertake any task His Majesty may require of you—so long as it does not conflict with your vows, of course."
The Warlord cast the archbishop a long look. "Think well what you ask. I give you one chance to reconsider."
The shadow of that look crossed the archbishop's heart, chilled his blood. Lifting the wet breviary, he held it tightly in his hands, to keep them from shaking.
"Vade cum Deo," he said. "Go with God."
"Thank you, Holiness," said Sagan, voice cold and empty, "but I travel alone." Bowing, he left the room.
Fideles sank back down into his chair. Oblivious to the water, the broken glass, the blood, he clasped his hands on top of the wet desk.
"Blessed Father, have we lost him? Was he ever ours to lose? Yet what else could I do? Deus eum adjuvat. God help him. Deus nos adjuvat! God help us all!"
Chapter Eighteen
Her court was pure, her life serene;
God gave her peace; her land reposed;
A thousand claims to reverence closed
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "To the Queen"
"Is the transport ready?" Dion asked his secretary, who had entered the office with his accustomed air of tranquillity.
"Yes, sir," replied D'argent. He crossed the large room, making no sound on the thick carpet, laid a file down in front of the king, lifted another. "For your signature, sir. These few here must be done by hand, not electronic. The Lord of the Admiralty is on the commlink. He would like to talk to you before we depart, and Her Majesty requests to see you, as well."
Dixter. Her Majesty. Dion frowned. He was—or had been—in an excellent humor. The day he'd been, anticipating for weeks had finally arrived. He'd watched the sunrise and felt its light flood through his veins. Tonight he would be with Kamil. He wanted nothing to ruin this day, nothing to dim the sunshine—not the Lord of the Admiralty, certainly not Astarte. Dion picked up an old-fashioned ink pen, began signing forms—mostly ceremonial in nature: official proclamations of various planetary holidays and celebrations, presentations of awards, gifts and grants, and so forth.
"I will speak with Dixter first. Inform Her Majesty that I will be at her disposal after that. How much time do we have?"
"An hour, if we are to arrive there on schedule, sir."
Dion handed back the folder. The secretary glided from the room. The king flicked on the commlink.
"Good morning, Admiral. No, I haven't heard from the archbishop. The courier left only a few days ago. Yes, I will let you know as soon as I hear anything. I will be at the Academy if you need to reach me."
Dion flicked on another line. "I am free to see Her Majesty now, D'argent."
Rising to his feet, he buttoned his black jacket, shook back his mane of red-gold hair, and had a smile prepared for his wife when she entered the room.
"Good morning, madam. You look lovely today. The blue of that gown brings out your eyes. You are dressed for traveling. What do you have planned?"
Astarte crossed the room, came over to her husband. Taking his hand, she inclined her face toward him. He leaned down, formally kissed her on the cheek. Her skin was cool, her fingers chill in his grasp. She was dressed in a suit of ice-blue lamb's wool, tailored to complement her short stature and exquisite figure. Her black hair was done in its elaborate coif. She used little makeup. Her complexion was flawless. She added only some color on her eyelids, to bring out their purplish hue, and a touch of coral on her lips.
Dion never failed to marvel at her beauty, as he never failed to marvel at the beauty of the cold, glittering jewels on display for the tourists in the Jewel Room on the lower, public levels of the palace. He let go of her hand, though he continued to smile down at her.
"Is there something I can do for you, madam? Before I leave?"
"You are going back to the Academy?" she asked him abruptly.
Dion stiffened, though he was careful to keep his facial expression impassive, blandly smiling. He knew his words sounded stilted, but he held no conversation with his wife— even on the most innocent of topics—that did not sound stilted.
"Yes, madam. Your husband is lecturing the students on the duties of a king." His smile broadened, though he thought his face might crack. He essayed a small joke. "I trust those who fall asleep will be polite enough to keep their snoring to a minimum."
Astarte had no answering smile; she seemed not to have heard him. Looking up at him, eyes dark with an unusual intensity, she said to him, "Don't go."
Dion was startled, uneasy. In all their years of marriage, she'd never made such a request. Why now? Did she suspect? And during the moment of silence that had passed while he was wondering, he realized that he should have been saying something to allay those suspicions.
"Madam, that is—"
"Wait no, let me finish." Astarte reached out to him. Almost shyly, she took hold of his hand, clasped it fast. Her voice was shaking; she talked too fast.
"I'll cancel my appointments. You cancel yours. We'll go away, just the two of us. That vid star, what's his name, Rusty Love, has been begging us to accept the use of his villa on Adonis. The surroundings are beautiful. It stands on a cliff overlooking the sea. It is completely isolated, away from the press and the people. We could swim and take long walks. You will teach me to play the harp, as you once promised. We won't mention politics, wars, religion. For two days or three, we will be two ordinary people. Please, my husband. We need to get away from this. We need to ... to be alone. We need to talk."
Dion stared at her, taken aback. He had never seen her so earnest, so impassioned about anything. Her mention of the harp touched him. In those first early, lonely days of their marriage, when they were strangers to each other, trying to learn to be husband and wife, he had played the harp for her. She loved music and those moments were the first moments of pleasure they had ever truly shared.
As time went by, those moments had become the last.
The transport was waiting. He had only to give D'argent new instructions, have the course changed, have the arrangements made. The Academy would understand. More than that, they'd be well pleased. The royal couple taking time out to be with each other. Romance blooms on Adonis.
He should do this. It was his duty: his duty to his wife, to his people. He felt Astarte's hand grow warmer in his grasp. The color deepened in her cheeks, lightened her eyes. She had seen the mirror image crack. She knew she had touched some vulnerable part of him.
She knows about Kamil, he realized. It is impossible, but she knows. And she is offering me this way out. No accusations. No recriminations. It will never be mentioned between us. But if I go with her now, I will be promising to forsake Kamil. And Kamil will know. She'll know when she sees the vids tonight. None of the three of us will ever have to say a word. It will all be ended, as swiftly and cleanly as a knife-thrust through the heart.
And he saw himself in their loveless bed, making love forever with his eyes closed.
Kamil! Desire flamed through him, ached, burned. He had dreamed so long of their meeting, tasted the delicious torment of anticipation. He needed the soothing rest that came from their easy comradeship, their conversation, her teasing, her laughter. He had made so many sacrifices, given up so much.
No, this he would keep. This was his. He would see to it that Astarte was placated. Damn it, if she'd only get pregnant! That was all she wanted from him.
"Your offer is very tempting, my dear," he said, withdrawing his hand from hers. "It all sounds wonderful. We will certainly take such a trip. Six month's time, perhaps. When both our schedules are free. I'll have D'argent make the arrange—"
"Don't do this, Dion!" Astarte pleaded. Her face was white, the color drained. "I beg you!"
He waited, tense, for the tears, the recriminations.
Astarte said nothing. She stood unmoving, looking at him, her expression one of such unutterable sadness that Dion was struck by it. Without a word, with only that singular look, she left the room.
Dion stared after her. He felt vaguely uncomfortable; muffled voices in his soul spoke of trust and honor, but he swiftly muzzled their mouths. He listened only to love's voice, to its sweet song. Love made all wrongs right.
He attempted to return to his work, but he couldn't concentrate. He kept seeing, not Kamil's face, as he wanted to see, but that sad look of Astarte's.
He shoved his work aside. "D'argent, we're leaving early."
He needed, suddenly, to be out in the sunshine.
His Majesty's shuttlecraft, one of those formerly attached to the old Phoenix, was safely and securely docked at the far end of the Academy's small spaceport. Dion chose to use the shut-de as home base during his stay this time, although the headmaster had kindly offered his own house for His Majesty's use once again. Though regretting walks in the rose garden—it was spring on the Academy's home planet—Dion had politely refused.
He would be on the planet for at least a week while he gavehis series of lectures. And during that time he could not abrogate his responsibilities, but needed to remain in control of events transpiring in his realm. He was planning to meet with emissaries from numerous neighboring star systems during his visit, as well as heads of several major corporations. The Academy needed money and the king had promised to try to persuade these wealthy magnates to invest in a commodity with a guaranteed return: education.
Consequently, Dion was busy from morning to night. The shuttlecraft's beautifully-appointed antechamber was filled with people waiting to be received by His Majesty. His lectures were well attended and well received, for though this might be an excuse to be with Kamil, Dion took the subject of kingship seriously. He had done a great deal of research, and his thoughtful and insightful comments impressed everyone, including those skeptics who has assumed this was a publicity stunt.
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